An Evening To Themselves

It’s Mother’s Day. Alexis Fawx waits on the edge of the bed in black lace, bouquet clenched in her fist, foot tapping. She wants her wife out of the damn bathroom. Serene has promised the night will be worth the wait; Alexis wants proof. Serene steps out wearing thin red straps that curve over each breast and dip between parted thighs like a bow waiting to be torn. Alexis grins, rises, meets her halfway. They kiss once—slow, tasting, deepening. Their mouths grow hungry fast. Hands slip beneath silk, slide, pinch, stroke. Pulse thuds against pulse. It has been weeks—weeks—since they stole time just for this. Alexis sinks first, knees parting Serene’s, tongue tracing the seam between the thin fabric and skin. Serene gasps, grabs at the sheets, fingers knotting cotton. Alexis eats like a woman starved, lips sealed, tongue flicking, nose buried. Serene returns the favor moments later, rolling Alexis onto her back, sliding in, spreading her open. The wet sounds are obscene; both women moan like they don’t care who hears. They shift, legs locking, cunts pressed tight. Hips grind. Sweat slicks skin. The tribbing turns desperate—bodies slamming, bedsprings creaking, orgasm building fast. Alexis clutches Serene’s ass, pulls harder, grinding until the first climax rips through them like heat lightning. Breathless, trembling, they stay tangled, thighs still twitching. They laugh low, kiss again, and begin the next round. They have no idea when they’ll get another night like this, and every second matters.